


When I say Stop

by EmilysRose



Series: Plot? Screw plot and gimmie cock! [2]
Category: All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Begging, Bloodlust, Choking, F/M, Fear, Humiliation, Mutual Masturbation, Naked Female Clothed Male, Praise, Spanking, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilysRose/pseuds/EmilysRose
Summary: I feel like this book really missed some much-necessary smut-scenes
Relationships: Diana Bishop/Matthew Clairmont
Series: Plot? Screw plot and gimmie cock! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717225
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \-------------WARNING-------------  
> I've been told that this scene is pretty heavy, and can be considered abuse. I want to warn anyone who's sensitive about the issue.
> 
> If your curious about context, this is when M shows Diana his apartment at All Souls--just after she gets her blood drawn.

Matthew tilts my head back further. I balanced myself on the hands he had in my hair and my fists in his shirt as he kissed his way down. Each place of his mouth touched froze, then burned as the blood rushed back to the surface. He kissed all the way up to my ear, where he put the flesh into his mouth, his cold tongue flicking my earring.

I gave up on being good, then, the pleasure of it sinking deep into my spine. My hands moved up his chest, over his neck, then tightened on the short strands of his hair. If he noticed, he obviously didn’t care, his mouth leaving my earlobe so his tongue could come around the shell.

“Matthew—” Impatient, I turned my head, arching on my toes to catch his lips.  
He was a hungry kisser, a demanding one, setting his own pace and his own needs. But fuck—did it feel good. The leading of his tongue, the pressure of his hands, the feeling of him against me was incredible. I was clawing at him in minutes, trying to get under his clothes to feel him, my hips aching to rock back and forth—

He bent down suddenly, ripping his lips from mine to grab either side of my thighs and lift them up. I slammed into his chest, gripping his shoulders from the inevitable fear of falling as my back was suddenly slammed into a wall. “None of that.” He hissed, and before I could ask what he was talking about his lips were on mine again.

This position was a lot better. With him between my legs, I could roll my hips with the kiss, forming that age-old, passion-fueled dance two people inevitably find when they’re down to fuck. He snarled, cloven breath gushing into my mouth before his lips wrapped around my tongue, his teeth lightly scraping. “Stop that.”  
Stop what? I didn’t want to stop anything—

“Diana.” He pulled his face away, ignoring my futile efforts to draw him back in. “Stop.”

“Fuck that,” I hissed, trying to get to his mouth. He wouldn’t give it to me though, tilted his face away, so I went for his throat. Kissing and licking it did interesting things. Usually there would be a moan, maybe, or some sign of pleasure, but instead Matthew froze, his grip on my thighs getting almost uncomfortably tight. But I could feel his dick resting right between my legs, the barriers of his jeans and my leggings doing nothing to hinder the full, pulsing twitch of his dick the second my tongue ran over his pulse point.

Human myths said vampires had no pulse. They were wrong. They’re pulse was so fast, on a monitor it would register as a fatal heart attack. And right now, his pulse point was going a mile a minute.

Curious about it, I bit—

—and was dumped right on my ass.

I gasped, confused, shoving my hair back from my face to see that he was all the way across the tiny apartment, crouched down and looking at me with an uncomfortably blank gaze. “Uhm. Don’t bite?” I asked.

His entire body shuddered. And I realized that it was probably a very poor choice of words. “I mean, I shouldn’t bite you?”

“No.” His voice was all gravel. “I think you should leave now, Diana.”

I don't like being dismissed by him. Maybe it was the fact that I had fallen, my perfect horny-high ruined by him flinting away. Mostly, though, I was just sick and tired of this feral routine. I could handle it in conversation. But now? Of all times?  
If he was going to bite me, he should just do it. Get it over with, taste me, and then fuck me. And if he craved me enough to hurt me—well, it was better to know now than later, when my emotions got so tangled up, I couldn’t see right from Matthew. 

I pushed against the wall, getting onto my hands and knees and crawling across the room towards him. He watched my every movement, his body so still that my thighs gave a twinge of sympathy. 

“Diana—”

“Matthew,” I snarled, getting right into his face. I didn’t go for his lips. Didn’t try to kiss him. I was pretty sure the second I did he’d shove me backwards and run away. 

No—I needed to get his full, undivided attention.

I got onto my knees and took off my jacket, flinging it across the room with a big flourish. The motion distracted him, his eyes following the trail of blue so I could discretely take off the gauze still wrapped inside my elbow. I was careful to fold the tape on itself, rather then in the square. “You know what I want, Mathew?” His eyes snapped back to me, all predator, still and waiting and hungry. “I want you to shit or get off the pot.”

Fury laced his expression, raw and full of hatred. He opened his mouth to snarl out a deep, rumbling, “I told you to sto—”

He stopped fully when the gauze landed on his tongue, and I barely took my fingers back before his teeth were slamming down.

I’d hardly taken my hand away before his own was wrapping around my throat. The movement was so sudden I half expected there to be pressure around my windpipe, my throat gagging on instinct. But his big, cool hand just wrapped around the column, pressing tight enough to scare but not restrict—

He used it to lead me up. It was either gag or raise with him.

I didn’t like the look in his eyes. Grabbing his wrist with both my hands, I tried to explain. “Matthew, you don’t want—”

“Don’t tell me what I want.” His words were coming from deep inside his chest, now. And he loomed over me.

You don’t want to hurt me fell flat as his fingers finally did squeeze. And I had a horrible realization that I had done something very, very bad as his black eyes took in my choking with no emotion. “Strip.”

What? I danced on my toes, trying to take the pressure off as my nails scraped against his wrist. It was a stupid and useless move, but I couldn’t stop myself. Not when my lungs were starting to ache. Matthew leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear, teasing me with all the air I couldn’t take in. He demanded again, “Strip.”

I stripped. Fucking lord help me, there was nothing else to do. The second I was reaching to shove the straps of my tank top off my shoulders, the pressure was released. And after that there was no hesitation. I shoved the tank top down my stomach and over my hips, ignoring the tearing sound it produced before kicking them off and going for my leggings. They got caught around my feet, since I was still wearing my high tops, but the pressure wasn’t back.

Matthew just watched me. Holding my throat in his hand, his own jaw clenching so tight a vein popped up on the left side. And with his other hand, his cold fingertips gently traced the cup of my bra, trailing over the delicate mound of flesh and leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

It wasn’t the cutest underwear. In fact, it was downright embarrassing underwear; the band of my bra around my ribs thick and granny-like for maximum double-D support. And I was wearing my period underwear, a black g-string with a ripped lace band. It wasn’t the kind of outfit you wear when in front of a smoking hold older guy. Especially when I still had my pants around my ankles. 

“Matthew—”

His hand was tight again, and I squeezed his wrist in a silent plea.

“The rest of it. All of it. Off.” 

Again, the second I started taking off clothes, I could breathe. This time, I took in the air greedily, gasping for all I was worth and all that his still-tight hand would give me. The cold radiating off his chest made my already tight breast ache as I let my bra drop to the floor. Then, reaching for my panties, I tried to shove them down my hips with what little give he allowed me—

It went as far as my upper thighs before he was walking me backwards by my throat. And he wasn’t keeping his long-legged strides in check. Mostly, he dragged me across the room in front of him and I had to work to keep my bound feet under me or get choked. 

I was crying, I realized. Tiny, horrible little sobs of desperation as he uncaringly let my throat go, then used my thighs to spin me and lift me onto the back of the couch. My hips were the highest point, so my ass was in the air and my feet couldn’t touch the ground. I grabbed the couch cushions and I tried to crawl forward—a motion that was stopped the second his hand rested against the small of my back, pinning me deeper into the bent position.

“When I say stop—”

I heard the loud slap first. And then the pain hit me, so blindingly intense that I screamed. 

“—You stop.”

His hand slapped my other ass cheek, and I couldn’t hold back the wail the second time. Shit—I didn’t want to hold it back. Because obviously he wasn’t holding back. 

I’d been slapped around in bed before. Little ass slaps, a few tit slaps between nipple twists, even a face slap, once. It had been fun, light, playfull stuff. Sure, it had hurt a bit, but there was a difference between hurt and pain. And there was a difference between fun, kinky sex and the suddenly overwhelming feeling of helplessness and panic. I grabbed fistfuls of the couch cushions, trying to shove my way off the couch’s back. But then one of his thighs was pinning mine, making my bent position even more dramatic. I tried rolling. I tried bucking. I tried flailing. I tried kicking and cursing and reaching helplessly for the ache of magic pressing against the inside of my skin. Matthew let me struggle, maybe for a solid ten minutes, before the fight left me so suddenly I felt dizzy from it.

And when I realized there was no way to fight it—I tried begging.

Unashamed, sobbing begging.

“No.” 

And then he started spanking. Rapidly and without holding back. There was no space between them, no break in the relentless rhythm of right, left, right, left, right, left. The coolness of his thigh against mine was a taunt, a tease to the stinging burn of my ass. And despite the fact that I had nothing wrapped around my throat—there was suddenly no air because I couldn’t stop screaming it all out.  
The furious pounding on the door stopped the relentless ache. It was a cop’s knock, full fisted, threatening to shake the door down. And the absence of pain was almost blissful, sending me into a tailspin of euphoria as his hand released my back and I heard his steps walking away.

I think I should have turned around. Used my fight fistfuls of couch cushion to crawl my way forward. But the slightest bit of movement to take the pressure off my hips sent pain racing down my backside, making me whimper.

“What’s going on in here!” A man demanded, his voice loud and upset.

“Education.” Matthew’s voice made me shudder, my heels coming up, the slightest graze of cloth and the rubber sides of my sneakers making a new tailspin of pain to shudder through my body. It ruined any and all plans in using my fistful of cushion to crawl forward and away. 

It also, unfortunately, made it so I was stuck in the same ass-up position. And my ass was facing the door.

Bliss turned into humiliation. The change over was so rapid I felt it burning inside of me, forming a hateful, horrible place inside my chest that rose with bile. I had been spanked. Not in a fun way—but like a stupid child who needed to learn a corporeal punishment. And now that humiliation was being exposed—

“Don’t worry.” Matthew’s footsteps came closer, and I shuddered as he neared. Would he do it in front of the man? Would he complete the humiliation?

Cool hands grabbed the ruin sides of my panties and ripped, jerking my hips and ass. Cool hands grabbed my ass, gripping the tenderized flesh and flipping me onto my feet. I almost fell but landed on his chest.

It moved me to a sideways position. So I could see the aged, sixty something year old man standing in the doorway. He was balding badly, his collared short-sleeved shirt ruined with ink stains. His face was also bright red, his mouth hanging open in absolute horror as Matthew shoved my own underwear into my mouth.

“See?” He grabbed a fistful of my hair and forced my neck to elongate. “She’ll be quiet now.” His black eyes glittered at me, unmerciful and still furious. “Won’t you?”

I nodded as much as I could with his hand gripping my hair.

Matthew let my hair go. Let me go. I stumbled and swayed without his body to lean on, grabbing the back of the couch so I wouldn’t fall on my ass. Then the door was slamming shut and his hands were on me in an instant, grabbing the wet sides of my face and holding them so I was forced to look into his hard, furious face.

“When I tell you to stop, I’m not asking because I want to fucking tease you. I’m telling you to stop because my control is at a fucking hairs breath.” He leaned in closer, his nose wrinkling as he snarled, “It does not mean bite me. It does not mean give me a taste of your fucking blood. It does not mean, Diana, that I want you to push my buttons before I rip your throat out and have to deal with knowing what you are like cold and broken in my fucking arms. Stop means stop.”

My heart was beating so hard in my chest, it felt like I wild animal was in there, beating against the cage of my ribs and sternum. I nodded, as much as I could I nodded. Holding his wrists, I tried to express how completely and thoroughly I had learned his lesson.

His hold on my face loosened some, though his gaze never softened. “Now, Diana, I want you to go over to the couch. I want you to bend over my lap.”

More? He was going to do more?

I trembled, feeling his hands slowly release me. My fingers seemed stuck to his wrist, trailing against the veins of his hands, then the longness of his fingers before I was suddenly supporting myself. I watched as he walked around the couch and sat down in the middle, his back to me. I stared at his dark head for a while, humiliation and aching pain making thoughts difficult.

It was pretty clear the message he was sending, though: he wouldn’t stop me if I bent down, braved the feeling of my leggings on my ass, grabbed my jacket and took my walk of shame back to apartment. He would let me go. And most likely whatever this was would be over.

No more gentle teasing in his car. No more yoga. No more being involved about the possibilities of Ashmole 782. No more watching his personality change from normal to feral at the snap of a finger. No more feeling beautiful and desired under his gaze. No more feeling sheltered and protected by his large body. I would never feel his cold body pressed up against me. No more fear of his vampirism.

To stay with him, to go to the couch and lean over his lap would not only lead to immediate pain—maybe death.

I could go home, where I was safe. I could be surrounded by my family, and whatever all this was would pass. Knox would give up on hunting me. Maybe in a few years, there would be tentative answers to the Ashmole 782 mystery. Answers that would involve him, not me. Life would have moved on by that point, so the problem itself would grow more and more distant. And so would the memory of Matthew. This painful, humiliating moment and all the good ones, too. 

I moved around the couch awkwardly, my feet still wrapped up in my leggings. It wasn’t rational or even instinctual. It just was.

His head turned slowly to watch me as soon as I came towards the front of the couch. His black, furious gaze was gone. Whatever was on his face now confused me—there was regret in his eyes, and determination in the slant of his eyebrows, and hunger and arrogance in the snarl of his tightly pressed lips. 

Without moving, he watched me put my knees up on the cushions. Right where my tears had soaked and stained the fabric. And then I leaned across his lap.

I heard his sigh, rather than felt it. “Ma vaillante fille.”

He leaned. And then with gentle care he lifted up my leggings and undid my shoes. They fell to the ground, then he stripped off my socks, and finally my pants. I was completely naked now, my ass up as I rested my cheek against the cloth and tried to breath.

There was no stopping the flinch as his hands rested on my ass. And his cool fingers were terrible and wonderful on the burning flesh as he gently followed the cleft of my ass and spread my legs wider apart. “Do you want a pillow, to support your stomach?” 

I shook my head. His lap was fine.

“I’m going to make you cum, Diana.” His hands slid back up my ass, grabbing each cheek and just holding. His hands were so big, he seemed to cup the flesh perfectly. “Remember that.”

And then he starting kneading. It hurt. Not as bad as being slapped, but enough to have me biting down on my underwear. It was nothing more than torn and soaked lace, and I didn’t even try to stop the drool that rolled over my chin. There was no point. 

His hold on me was tender. He seemed to cherish the flesh he’d just brutalized and I found my tears flowing down my face and mixing with the saliva on my chin.  
His massage lasted for what felt like eons—past the point of wondering when he would stop and towards a mindless state of acceptance. His thumbs rose and dug into the small of my back, then came down and gently massaged the backs of my thighs. His fingers would roll in the twitching flesh of my ass itself, till there was nothing but that. A sensation of coolness mixing with changing pain.

And then one hand lifted and slapped my ass.

I buried my face into the cushion, trembling at the sensation that was more fear than pain. It had mostly just been sound. A light flick. Nothing compared to what he’d done before—but my cheeks still hurt.

And then he was giving that side of my ass extra attention, kneading and rolling and loving the flesh. Before his hand came up and slapped the next one—a gentle reminding tap before loving the flesh.

I prepared myself for the next slap. The right cheek this time. I tensed, waiting, holding myself up on my elbows as I buried my face into the couch. 

Matthew didn’t slap my ass. Not the right cheek or the left cheek. Instead, he slapped between the opening of my legs; a strong, possessive cupping that had a bit more power to it than the previous, gentler-ass slaps. I flinched forward but didn’t protest outside of that. Mostly because when his fingers found their way through my folds to knead and give loving, gentle attention—there was no resistance. In fact, my pussy opened for him, the slickness letting his fingers glide through.  
I was soaked. I could feel the liquid soaking my thighs.

Things became a little mindless after that. 

He touched me in exploratory ways, at first. He found my clit instantly but fingered in different ways to see what I liked, how much pressure I preferred, what I angles and directions had me gently moving my hips back into his hand. 

And then he lightly slapped my right ass. And loved on it. And slapped my left ass. And rubbed on it. I waited for the slap between my legs, eager for the glide of his fingers. He touched me in a way no one had before. He was like an expert lover learning secrets, teasing them out and ruthlessly deploying them for single minded pleasure. 

But he gave my pussy no more attention than he did each cheek. It was maddening to feel the gentle build up before his unhurried attention towards other parts of me. I didn’t protest, though. Didn’t try to get him to pay attention to what I wanted. Instead, I waited. I fell into the rhythm of it, helpless against his seemingly endless patience. He said he would make me cum—but when? In an hour? Two? The pacing made sure the pleasure hardly built up, much less stopped before it continued.

Then something changed. I don’t know what it was. I couldn’t name it. But my hips were lifting up, rolling along with his attentions, my body naturally following the slightest tilt of his hand, the barest pressure of his fingers. And everything just—built on top of itself. The painful burn of my cheeks, the coolness of his hands, the maddening stirring of his fingers. Even the slaps added to the feeling. Even the leftover humiliation created a new, totally unselfconscious pleasure. 

When I came, it was long and consuming. I’d heard people talking about sex and orgasms that shook the world, made the heart stop and the body feel like it was falling and breaking apart—but I had never experienced it for myself. I never thought pleasure like that was real until it mixed with the magic pressurizing under my flesh and gripped me like a vise, taking me away somewhere where only it and the glide of Matthew’s fingers existed.

I think I seized a bit. It felt like I did, because when I came down—still rolling on tiny hills of pleasure—my entire body had twisted up, my toes cramping and my head swimming. I took in a huge, gasping lungful as Matthew’s cool, magical fingers grabbed the back of my neck and lifted me up into a sitting position.

He spoke in French. That, or my mind was still somewhere else. He gently pressed me against his chest and then laid back, settling me ontop of him, his hands gliding up and down my body, tangling in my hair, cupping my ass or thumbing away dried up trails of salt from my cheeks. 

The peace of it all was infinite. It wrapped itself around me like a blanket and took me gently towards sleep.


	2. What is it about you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more smut?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is after they dance with Ysabeau

Eventually, as the yawning became jaw-cracking, I wondered back towards Matthew’s study to sleep.

I was surprised to find that Matthew had followed, and he reached his study at almost the exact same time that I did, his speed creating a gentle gust of wind that touched my hair and made me look back. “There’s no need for you—”

He cut me off by cupping my face in my hands. His breath was wine-spiced cloves, and his gaze and dark and smoky and something I had begun to notice meant horny.

“What spell have you put on me?” He asked. He searched my face for something, as if looking for it.

“I didn’t—I promise I haven’t spelled you—”

“Yes, you have.” He said simply. His restlessness searching turned into something dissatisfied. His hands curled into my hair, pulling it from my face as he cradled my head tightly. “It’s not simply your eyes, though they do make it impossible for me to thinks straight—or the fact that you smell like sunlight and sex.” He forced my head back, exposing my neck so he could bury his face. The cold tip of his nose touched my throat, then his tongue slid up, before his lips kissed the skin.

One of his hands left my hand, trailing down my body to grab my ass and draw me closer to him. His erection pushed against my stomach.

“It’s not just your fearlessness,” He whispered into my skin. “Or the way you do things with such naïve confidence—as if you’re in love with life itself. It’s not just the way you shimmer and glow.” His mouth moved from my neck, trailing kisses along the way. His tongue would gently lick out from between his lips, before he kissed, his mouth opening to glide his teeth across the skin and deliver the same agonizingly sweet treatment somewhere else.

I shivered against his body, grabbing his ribs to pull his chest down more fully on mine. I liked the feeling of his weight, the sustainability of him, and I felt like I needed it so my stomach wouldn’t jump out of me.

“You know, you moth puckers when you sleep?” He asked, peppering light kisses around my chin and the corner of my mouth. “You look like you’re upset with your drams—but I’d like to think you just want to be kissed.” He sounded more and more French with every word he spoke, drunk on it.

And then he kissed me. It was slow, and deep, the kind of kisses that comes with sharing gasping breath into one another’s mouth, where tongues dance with one another, never breaking apart. It felt like I was crawling out of my skin, my magic was so achingly there that I vibrated with it. I grabbed at him everywhere I could, desperate to make some bodily connection beyond our mouths, my hands gliding across him. But when my fingers dug under his shirt, going for the lip of his underwear above his slacks, he stopped me with a quick bite to my upper lip and a fierce, “Stop.”

I stopped immediately.

That lesson—I’d learned well.

But for some reason I still wanted to pressure him. Not for the sake of going beyond, but to see what he would do, see if he would bend me over again. The memory of it was so potent and wonderful. He seemed to be able to tell that, too, and a wicked grin spread across his cruel mouth before his hand moved down the back of my body. He still had my hair gripped like a vice, and he used it to arch me backwards in the cradle of his arms, all my weight dictated by him as his other hand smoothed the across one cheek in a loving caress. My breath hitched, my body jumping, as he gave me a light smack, and then his hand was squeezing the flesh in an almost painfully tight grip. “You know, I’ve given your ass a lot of attention.” His gaze devoured me, moving from my face down. “But not your breasts.” The way I was arched meant they were pressed against him.

“What a shame.” I murmured.

“What a shame.” He agreed.

He stood me upright then took a step back. I waited, expectant, as his gaze fit over my body. I was wearing my black crop-top turtleneck again, and a pair of leggings. “Take the top off.” He said. I eagerly obeyed. I was wearing my granny-bra again, the one with the large band, but I was beyond self-conscious about it at this point. “The rest—everything.” His voice had grown gruff.

I stripped quickly, throwing off my bra and flinging it aside, then going for my leggings and underwear. It wasn’t a cute, teasing strip-tease, but the quick and furiously fast motions of a woman wanting to get naked. I almost tripped trying to rip my leggings off both feet, and he made an appreciative sound as I stumbled backwards, my bare breasts bouncing in the air.

Completely naked now, I was aware of the coldness to the room. A fire hadn’t been lit, and only the glow of his laptop and a few choice lamps around the room let me see him properly.

He didn’t bother taking off his own clothes. It seemed a part of—the game, the tease, what we were doing—for me to be completely naked and for him to be clothed. He was the one with all the power right now, the one in control. And while I would fight him day and night for stopping me from doing something the way I felt comfortable—I didn’t want to be comfortable right now. I wanted to be at his mercy. I wanted to experience the deft, shocking, wonderful thing he came up with.

But… what if I did fight him, even if only a little?

“Ah, ma vaillante fille, I don’t like that look.” He circled me, and I felt hunted again.

I wobbled to the balls of my feet. “What look?”

From behind me, his hand came up to grab at my throat. His long fingers cradled my jaw, jerking my head up and elongating my neck again. “That wicked look.” He whispered. He kissed my ear, his tongue coming out to lick a long stripe around the flesh and making me groan. “Let me do what I want to you, ma vaillante fille, and I will make you cum. Fight me, and well…” He chuckled. “Maybe I won’t.”

“I want—” I cut myself off as his fingers squeezed. It didn’t cut off air, just made me stop talking.

“Let me do what I want.” He said.

But did that involve sex? From everything that we’d done, actual sex had never come up. And I wanted to experience that with him. I could remember my first time in vague, abstract notes. The man had been gentle, tender, and I only learned afterwards by rutting with boys my own age, that he had been showing me how to make love—not how to have sex. I wanted that with Matthew. Even if it wouldn’t be as kind or sweet—I no longer needed kind or sweet.

A small protest left my lips as he released me.

“Shhh.” He guided me forward, not towards the couch or the stairs, but towards one of his chairs. His hands gripped my hips as he lifted me onto it, then turned me to face him.

Like this—my breasts were perfectly aligned with his head. He hardly even had to bend his head to trail one cold nose against my right nipple. My hands went up, gripping his head as the coldness made me tremble. I wished his hair was longer, then, wished I had something to grip and hold onto. “Did you ever have it long?” I asked. My voice was strange to me, almost strangled sounding as his nose did little circles around my areolas.

“Yes. For a very long time. Do you want me to grow my hair out, ma vaillante fille?”

“Yeah.”

He purred something French, something sweet, and then his tongue came out to flick my nipple. I shuddered. He agonized over my nipples with little touches of his tongue, moving to the other to do the same thing. He kept going till my breasts were overly sensitive with it, and then one hand came up to grab the flesh, rolling it in his hands, thumbing the nipple as he devoted absolute attention to the other with his mouth.

He grew rougher and rougher—eventually twisting my nipples and biting gently at them, pulling with his teeth. The pleasure was absolute, and he didn’t seem to care that I was clawing at his head, pushing him towards me, or that my hips were restlessly jerking back and forth into the air. I needed something, some release to the endless buildup. “Matthew—Matthew I need—”

“You upset me, earlier.” He breathed. He lifted up his head to grab both of my breasts in his hands, doing divine, aching things to them while I tried to get his mouth back to me. It was impossible, though. He went where he wanted to. And his hands squeezed me, as if to tell me to quit while I could. “You risked your safety, and then you laughed it off like it was okay.”

“Matthew.” Now wasn’t the time for this conversation.

“Diana.” He said. “Not only did you ignore my wishes about the saddle—but you went after Balthasar. The one horse in the entire stable I would never trust your safety with.”

“Matthew.” It was more of a whine, now. Because he was kneading my breasts, trapping my nipples between his index and middle finger and relentlessly circling them round and round.

“You never once apologized for scaring me.”

“I’m sorry!” I hissed.

His laugh was low and sinister. “You’ll say just about anything to get what you want right now. Won’t you?”

“Yes.” God fucking damn him. “Matthew, I—”

“Beg for me, ma vaillante fille. Beg me to touch you. Beg me to devour you.”

“Please. Please do something to me. Touch me, Matthew. I want you in me. I want to feel your weight. I want to feel your body, and your strength, and your cock.” His breath grew ragged, and he twisted my nipples a little too hard, bending forward to give the offending ache a gentle lick and kiss before pulling back. A frustrated scream broke from my lips. “Let me touch you the way I want to touch you.”

“How do you want to touch me?”

“I can show you.”

He laughed again. “Non. Try again.”

“I want to grab the base of your cock in my hand before licking up the length. I want to suck on your head, and slowly glide down. I want to—“ I groaned at a wicked twist of my nipples. “I want taste you, see what you like, draw you into me any way you’ll have me.”’

“Such a sweet, sweet girl.” He breathed. “But you can’t.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “I wanted to tear the clothes from your body when you lay on the ground, trying to get the riding boots off. I wanted to push inside of you and punish you with every thrust for risking yourself.”

“Yeah—yeah. Do that now.”

He snarled. In an instant I was off my feet and getting slammed into something—a bookshelf, by the uneven ache against my back. A few books fell off the shelves, one of them slamming into my shoulder before his weight pushed me deeper into the stack. My feet found a shelf, before I was wrapping my legs around his hips. I grinded shapely against him, desperate for the wonderful friction of his cock I could feel inside his slacks. “You want that? You want me to pound into you? To thrust until you scream and use you for my own pleasure?”

“Fuck—yes.” I wailed. “Yes!”

“Then don’t, ever,” He snarled, “Risk your life again.”

I forced his head to turn to me, but it was impossible to get what I wanted without a bit of awkward neck twisting. Eventually my mouth found his—and ignoring how his lips had pulled back from his teeth, I licked inside the mouth. “Angry sex with you would feel so good, Matthew. So good.” Any sex with him would feel good.

Hissing, he pushed me harder into the wood, jabbing my back with the shelves. “I should let you suffer like this—all wanton and horny.”

No—No I did not want that. But I also didn’t want to give into him. “I’ll just touch myself.” I said, feeling more defiant than I actually did. If he let me go, I don’t know what I would do. Scream, maybe.

He groaned. “I want to see that.”

He did? “I—”

He let me go. Gently putting me to my feet with unfightable hands. “Go. Lay down. Touch yourself.”

Feeling off kilter, I was too horny to fight it. Instead of wandering to the couch I lowered myself to the freezing stone floor. He made a soft, strange sound as I got onto my back and spread my legs. And then he was sudden there, kneeling between them, holding one half and one thigh in his hands. “Show me.” His voice was all snarl, his face twisted into something cruel and ravenous.

I lowered my hands. No preamble, no tease. I think if I tried anything like that, I’d lose my nerve. Because no one had asked me to touch myself in front of them. It felt—more intimate than having him do it. More vulnerable. And the feeling of his gaze made it more exciting. I slid between my folds easily, so wet every movement was an easy glide. My middle finger went towards my clit, and I circled round and round the pleasure I’d been experiencing in past four hours finally met a crescendo.

“Touch me, Matthew, please.” I groaned. I was already so, so close. I could feel it coming on.

“No.” He said it softly. Reverentially. A ghost of a sound.

I looked at him. He was kneeling between my open legs, his gaze focusing on my hand, on what I was doing to myself. In the darkness he looked so savage—an untamed beast of a man. And that did it. I sped my fingers up as release met it’s beginning, and I screamed out as it met its end.

For a while I just lay like that, panting, one damp hand still between my legs as I shoved my hair back with a shaky laugh. If it felt like this—to be with him like this—I couldn’t imagine what the actual sex would be like. Mind altering, perhaps. World shaking, maybe.

He slid his body between my legs, hovering over me on his hands before gently lowering and kissing me deeply. He didn’t protest when I grabbed him with my still wet hand, trying to feel him properly through the fabric. But he did stop me—rising onto his knees—when I tried undoing his pants to get a better grip.

I watched him, wondering if he would get up and leave. If he would cart me off to bed or tell me that he was too angry to do anything about his own release. There seemed to be a war going on in his head.

Eventually he lifted his hand and undid his slacks. The clasp, first, and then the many buttons. He lowered them down his thighs, which he spread, making my own widen, before he slid down the band of his boxer briefs. He lowered them so they cradled his balls, a tight, gently hairy sack which was slightly darker than his actual skin. But my eyes stayed on his dick, the thick, proud length of it with its thick veins.

He was close, too. Precum already leaked form the wide, gently curved head, and with a minute or two of pumps before warm liquid was splashing across my body. He growled viciously as he came, his face growing tense as his muscles tightened.

I drifted a hand through a small puddle, touching it to my fingertips before tasting him. It was as herbal as the tea Marthe had given me, a little bitter but heavily spiced.

With black, black eyes, he watched me taste him. And then his hands drifted along my body, smoothing out his cum and rubbing it over me—my belly, under my chain, up my breasts, towards my neck, and then back down. With the residue on his hands he lowered between my legs, going for the creases where my thighs met my body, then inward.

I shuddered at the first feeling of his fingers between my legs, smoothing himself inside the folds. He was snarling, a low, deep, continuous sound that hardly seemed to need breath as his fingers touched my opening—and then went away.

“You’ll be the death of me, ma vaillante, vaillante fille.”

“No.” I breathed, sitting up to kiss over his rapidly beating heart. His chest hair tickled my face. “I’ll be the life of you.”

His fingers moved into my hair, cupping the back of my head as he soundlessly seemed to agree.


End file.
